


A Gentle Touch/A Touch of Sin

by Eilwen, Livewire94



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A bit of humour, A/C through time, Ancient Egypt, Art talks, Body Worship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plague, Slice of Life, The Year 2000, contemporary times, eden days, film talks, medieval moments, roman days, warm romances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22471525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilwen/pseuds/Eilwen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livewire94/pseuds/Livewire94
Summary: When they touch, Crowley’s eyes can see magic. Electrical sparks, tracing the lines from when Aziraphale’s fingers land on his skin to when they leave. Every colour in the universe within that arc. Positive touching negative. A car battery going bang. Crowley might as well explode.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. INTRO

How does Crowley describe Heaven?

At the time, he had no birthday to speak of - he was not alive, and then he was, with all the awareness that an angel should have. He had a different name, but he won’t tell you what it was. He will tell you he forgot, but it is impossible to gauge how truthful he is being when there are sunglasses hiding his eyes. He might lie. Or perhaps it isn’t a lie.

Time during his time in Heaven, was without definition, without a known beginning or end, but at some point he found himself assisting galaxy and star creation. He constructed meaningless kaleidoscopes and waved his hands (or whatever ethereal limbs he had) and suddenly there were stars in Andromeda or asteroids here and there creating chaoses.

As an angel, he could not feeling anything between his non-existent fingers. It is difficult to describe in a human language. To be aware, yet without awareness. To see with no eyes and also with ten thousand eyes. To know what touch is without ever experiencing it. To taste without a tongue. He remembered everything of his time (or lack of time) in Heaven. Joyous but endless, then boring, then confusing and then he questioned some things.

His wings were eventually set on fire and he fell and tumbled ungracefully into the office basements of Hell where Satan was already waiting for him. It was almost laughable. When he finally got back onto his feet, his eyes were yellow, his wings were dirty and his feet were unrecognisable. He wore clothes to hide his nakedness. When his fingers traced the fabrics, the sensation was still absent. Things still somehow hurt - his body ached and his eyes were constantly adjusting to the lack of light yet somehow he still couldn’t _feel_ shit. It was a frustrating paradox. But his lack of touch told him many things about his new home.

How does Crowley describe Hell? It is pretty much exactly like Heaven.

He washed his wings to get rid of the soot but they remained as black as outer space. He at least still kept them neat and shiny.


	2. Forehead

**4004 BC**

It was during Edenic days when Crawly (as he was known back then) began to feel things. He volunteered to get the hell out of Hell and suddenly, he was on the surface - neither the Penthouse nor the Basement, but a good in-between.

As he slithered, he experimentally shifted the wet soil against his scales and he watched his body create esses in the dirt. This is nice, he thought, though nice is a terrible word on his forked tongue. He was able to breathe and smell the new aromatic compounds outside of Hell’s basic dampness and sweat. There were high stone walls bordering Paradise, locking it from harsh unknowns. Of course his curiosity carried him to what might be beyond them. It was strange for God to create The World with a circumference of twenty five thousand miles, yet keep the two humans in a jail cell.

He was by the river, Pishon, feeling the cool water against his hot iridescent skin for the first time when he saw Eve relaxing on a rock. It was then that he remembered his duty. His requirement was simple: _Make some trouble._

So he did.

When Adam and Eve gained their knowledge and exited Eden with a child in Eve’s stomach, Crawly knew that Hell was expecting his immediate return. His time in Eden had been too short. He wanted more. He had grown used to this new world where things had textures and the temperature affected his body. At the same time, he was excited for something he wasn’t sure of. Crawly desired exploration. Adam and Eve had the right idea of leaving.

But he also felt sorry for them.

As he thought this, a white feather fell almost serendipitously onto his head. He looked up to find its source but he only saw the high face of the Eastern Gate. Perhaps he could get the best view of the two banished humans from the top. He made his way up and up and up. His long figure molded against the cracks in the wall as he rose higher and higher until he saw a pair of angelic feet.

He had seen the feet of the Angel of the Eastern Gate before, but never his face. Crawly always dodged being seen by this figure in white because the angel always carried a flaming sword. Fluffy white wings and a flowing robe had occasionally graced his peripherals but his instinctive response was always to hide in the dirt. The demons down below had warned him that the Guardian of the Eastern Gate might chase him away, or burn his skin with the sword. Instead, the angel looked at him with concerned and skeptical eyes. A regrettable sadness behind pools of blue.

Crawly created conversation, providing an offering of peace via a joke about lead balloons. The angel returned the offering with a hesitant confession. The angel had given away his sword, not even as a gift but more as a ‘just take it’, ‘this will be more useful for you than for me’ or maybe even a ‘I want to get rid of it - so please have it’. This impressed Crawly, more than he would like to admit. Angels were known to be by-the-book, cold and humourless. They may possess love but their views of punishment and violence were strong and merciless. He would know. He saw and experienced their battles firsthand. But here, this angel had shown something he had never seen: empathy. And this angel gave away his own powerful weapon, given to him by God, because of that empathy.

When the rain started to fall, Crawly shifted uncomfortably, unsure of the new pitter-patter sensations on his body and he instinctively moved closer to the angel. The angel unfurled a wing to shelter Crawly. It was a kind gesture, though to maintain his spiteful ways, Crawly didn’t bother to thank him. The sky spat out lightning as they watched the humans walk away from their slain lion in silence. An ethereal feather touched the demon, like a finger blessing him on his cursed forehead and Crawly thought that this angel must have the gentlest touch ever.


	3. Hands

**1446 BC  
**

You’d want to think that Crawly and Aziraphale had the smoothest relationship from first meeting to present day.

The very simplified narrative by this point on Earth was as follows: God’s people had been enslaved by the Pharaoh in Egypt. Moses, a commoner, got word from God via a burning bush to free Her people. God and Moses threatened the Pharaoh using the Plagues of Egypt. The Pharaoh did not relent. Moses eventually guided Her people to cross the parted Red Sea, drowning the Pharaoh’s soldiers who had followed them. The Freed People gathered at the base of Mount Sinai, but Moses, still conversing with God, went on a spiritual retreat up the mountain leaving everyone else at base camp waiting for Moses’ return.

Crawly, in these early days, was a hellion. He created chaos, did whatever he liked because Hell had granted him semi-permanent stay on Earth and he was going to fucking enjoy it. He had bumped into his angelic counterpart several times since their time in Eden and they conversed each time, but their conversations, however friendly they were, were always fleeting. They would separate and go about their own ways.

In the meantime, Crawly had grown used to Earth. He had eaten (food is OK), slept (sleeping is great), touched animal fur, scratched an itch, felt mud harden in his sandals, masturbated, listened to terrible music and tasted alcohol. Earth was an extended vacation with the occasional notification from Hell to do this and that and he would write a note to them every few years or so, usually taking credit for something he did not really do. He did not want to leave.

The only annoyance these days was Moses. Don’t get Crawly wrong. He was on Moses’ side and found slavery to be one of the most foul aspects of humanity, but Moses had taken credit for one of Crawly’s pranks, absorbing it into the infamous Plagues of Egypt list.

As mentioned before, God and Moses threatened the Pharaoh with a series of Plagues. _Free my people or you will face supernatural wrath upon you, your children and your lands._ Something like that. The first plague was to turn the Nile’s water into blood, killing the fish, rendering itself undrinkable. The river had smelled terrible for miles.

The second plague was recorded to be an infestation of frogs. Frogs covering the city, entering homes, jumping into food supplies.

But the frogs? Entirely Crawly’s idea. With a snap of his fingers, he brought the frogs from the Nile into the lands because on a bored day, he wanted to piss off the Pharaoh. The prank was harmless. He enjoyed watching the frogs hop about, leap into beds and frighten the palatial residents. The rhythmic ribbits were more musical than anything any ancient instrument produced and to top off such a marvelous prank, Crawly even climbed onto a rock and conducted an amphibian orchestra with waving hands. A true hellion, indeed.

Crawly’s delight was short lived for the Pharaoh blamed Moses and Moses agreed that yes, it was God and now canonically, it is listed in the Bible as the second plague. There was some serious irony in God taking credit for something a demon did.

The rest of the plagues were actually caused by God. Locusts had demolished fields. The bloody river’s putrid smell had stuck to everyone’s clothes, including his. The boils on human skin had haunted him for days. Crawly was happy to disassociate from them, especially knowing that the last plague God set upon the people was to kill firstborns.

Crawly’s petty annoyance with Moses was one thing but his fury was with God for even imagining such a horrible calamity. He had been there, watching unfortunate ones mourn over limp little bodies. He had looked into the lifeless eyes of children. Children who were too young to even understand the evils in the world. Children who did not deserve to die.

But Aziraphale said that God’s plans were ineffable and Crawly resigned himself to accepting that he did not understand God.

Returning to our current story: the people were eventually freed and were living at the bottom of Mount Sinai while Moses disappeared for a retreat. Crawly found the population at the mountain base to be irritable and confused. Was Mount Sinai’s base meant to be a temporary home or a permanent residence? When will Moses return? Now that they achieved freedom, what next is there? Crawly entered the town with his head wrapped with linens and fine fabrics. The town, if temporary, was well surprisingly well-settled. The people were comfortable and happy, hiding their scars with long fabrics and simple jewellery. The streets were natural paths made by people walking to and fro and architecture only consisted of woods and reeds with the occasional carvings by a natural desire to decorate. He admired the gold on women’s wrists and watched the men argue about money.

How terrible would it be to disrupt the peace?

On Moses’ thirtieth day away from the people, Crawly situated himself by a water well and waited. He folded his legs and pretended to relax in the shade from the terrible heat.

“Something must have happened to Moses,” Crawly muttered within clear earshot of a passerby carrying a clay jug.

“What makes you think that?” asked the passerby as he pulled a bucket of water from the well.

“It’s been many days. Don’t you think? I’m worried. If something really did happen to Moses, then it must mean that God let it happen to him. That’s a funny God. Letting something happen to Moses.”

The passerby pursed his lips and looked at Crawly with strong suspicion. “Moses will return, madam. Don’t you worry.”

Despite this answer, Crawly knew that the doubt had been set.

It did more than set. It spread, worse than the locust plague, and the people reacted so strongly that they donated their jewellery, forged a golden calf and began to worship it as a new idol. They threw wreaths upon the calf’s lifeless head and praised an empty God. Crawly only thought they would worry and gossip, not toss all their gold away for a useless statue. The reaction was a bit too much. Overwhelmed and a bit unsure of what to do next, Crawly stole a pot filled with their beer and tiptoed away from the settlement. He headed to the seashore to drink under the stars.

The beer was awful, but alcohol was alcohol and he let the warm liquid hit his throat with a greedy gulp. The twinkling freckles in the sky reminded him of his angel days and for a brief second, he missed his old home. Earth was far more enjoyable than both Heaven and Hell but there were weird moments of loneliness. He wanted a drinking partner; someone to share the joys of his evildoings and to joke about something only they could know about and to confess really stupid decisions he made. There had been several humans he formed sincere bonds with, but mortals come and go, and how could he, a demon, really connect with someone about what his actual job was? He thought of the other demons, still living in Hell. Maybe loneliness was better than Hell-ish friends.

Strangely, the only constant was Aziraphale, and Crawly wasn’t exactly sure what to make of this fact. There were days Aziraphale wanted to chat and gossip and days when clearly he couldn’t or refused to. A constant that had no really label. Crawly was not sure how to categorise Aziraphale beyond ‘Angel. Also present on Earth’.

A cool breeze relaxed him. The grains shifted between Crawly’s fingers and he pressed his fingertips into the earth, writing his name, then a terrible ancient poem into the impressionable sand-slate. He laid back, spread his arms wide and asked the beach to remember his shape. Crawly was whining. He was given the grandest opportunity to roam the Earth and _feel_ the cool waters, the hot flames and malleable sand and he was complaining about being lonely.

Crawly was on the edge of drunken sleep when he heard the slightest unnatural movement.

“What is it, Aziraphale?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

“What did you do Crawly?” Aziraphale’s voice quivered. Crawly sat up to look at the angel. Aziraphale stood beside him with puffy, red eyes from tears and his fists were clenched tightly.

Crawly should not have been hurt hearing Aziraphale’s anger. After all, his goal was only to annoy God. But seeing Aziraphale’s tears made Crawly feel oddly foolish. Crawly should have said he didn’t expect things to blow out of his control. He should have apologised.

Instead, Crawly stood, brushed the sand off his robes and explained, “I only made them question.”

“They built a golden statue of a calf to worship. They are worshipping a false god!”

“They’ll get over it. When Moses returns, they’ll have a laugh.” He held up the jug and swished the brown liquid around as a peace offering, hoping to remind Aziraphale that while they may not be friends, they were certainly not enemies.

Aziraphale looked at the jug, grabbed it and smashed it onto a rock on the shore. The wasted beer seeped into the ground and the sea’s tides stretched and licked the alcohol stain. Crawly picked up a clay shard close to his feet, still a bit too tipsy to register that the drink really was gone.

“I didn’t think you’d be so infuriating,” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crawly’s wrist.

The grip was strong and Crawly feeling the oddest sensation shoot up his arm, hissed loudly. They had never touched before and Aziraphale’s fingers were reacting oddly with his skin - like a strange burning sensation, as if having your hand above a fire for a only second too long. It must have been the holiness radiating from Aziraphale’s body because even the sand began to heat and melt. (Or was it Crawly’s drunken imagination?) Aziraphale, seeing of Crawly’s shocked expression, let go.

“I didn’t build their calf. The humans did that all on their own,” Crawly spat.

“With your influence!”

“Bugger off.” Crawly did not want to admit that not even he could have foreseen how far the humans took their grief.

“I should - I should smite you. You’re a demon.”

The word demon was a fact, not an insult, but somehow it stung when it left Aziraphale’s lips and landed in Crawly’s ear. Rebellion boiled in his stomach and - maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was his pride - his own pruned black wings sprung out of his back and flexed open wide. Aziraphale’s white wings stretched, mirroring his.

During the War in Heaven, weapons had been used. Crawly remembered arrows raining down, swords igniting the air and the crackle of a dragon (Satan) emerging from the depths below to eat the heavens. The polarity of light and dark like oil and water.

You’d want to think that a true fight between Aziraphale and Crawly would be just as majestic. The imagery to inspire artists.

Instead the fight between Aziraphale and Crawly was weaponless and much more pathetic. Two vulnerable beings fighting like young boys in a football field, one of whom was clearly drunk. This was one of those moments neither Crawly nor Aziraphale would ever mention or ever try to remember in the future. There was even a possibility where one of them may have slapped the air to defend himself from the other.

As they rose from the beach, clinging to each other, wrestling for dominance over the other, Crawly twisted and his wings stretched upward, pulling them both higher and away from the Earth. Aziraphale’s holiness spread from his body in an attempt to swallow them both and Crawly shut his eyes, beating his wings to cool the air. Their weight was too much for gravity and they flew in a strange arc toward the ocean. Their physical earthly bodies were not built for the same battle they experienced millennia ago in Heaven. The jug’s shard cut into Crawly’s palm as they both fell into the shallow sea. Instinctively, he reached for Aziraphale and unconsciously allowed his own body to shield Aziraphale from the bellyflop onto the water’s surface.

Crawly did not want to discorporate but for some reason, he did not want Aziraphale to discorporate either. He wanted the angel around. The odd thing was that maybe, just maybe, and it was only a feeling, maybe Aziraphale also did not want to discorporate him.

As Crawly scrambled to his feet, the weight of the water in his feathers pulled him back downwards. When he looked up, Aziraphale’s fluffy white wings were gone so Crawly took his own wings back into the hellish depths within his back so they could be equals once more. When he looked to the ocean, he saw the algae were now red.

“Crawly. Your hand.”

Crawly looked to his hand and saw the cut. The shard he had been gripping sliced neatly into his palm. Aziraphale reached to take Crawly’s hand, gentle this time. Aziraphale’s fingers traced the edges of the cut and miracled flesh to heal the wound. Aziraphale’s hands were soft in contrast with Crawly’s own bony fingers and they exuded a comforting warmth. The burning sensation was no longer there.

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked.

“Never better.” Crawly pulled his hand away. He said this sarcastically but really (and he could not admit this) he was telling the truth.

* * *

_(An interlude: Crawly/Crowley eventually took revenge on Moses by convincing Saint Jerome that ‘horned’ and ‘ray of light’ were synonymous and didn’t need translating. Thus, when Saint Jerome tackled translating the Bible to Latin, he kept ‘horned’ in Mose_ _s’ description. Future artists would then depict Moses with little horns in his head, similar to the stereotypical though incorrect view of a demon. An example would be Michelangelo’s sculpture,_ Moses _, found in the church of San Pietro in Vincoli in Rome. Crawly/Crowley would consider this to be one of his greatest achievements.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some information on Moses' horns, particularly on Michelangelo's statue of [Moses](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moses_\(Michelangelo\)#Horns) (1513–1515).


	4. Arm

**44 AD**

Since their interaction at the Red Sea, Crowley’s temptations had been reduced to inconveniencing humanity rather than carrying out any specific duties. Humans would create chaos for themselves and Crowley would write up a nice long message to Hell and get the credit. His job was getting easier so he spent his time immersing himself in the popular culture of the time period. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had discovered the material goodness of Earth and their meetings were now frequently over food and drink. Humanity infected these divine beings, settling into their bones like a latent disease. Crowley was all right was this. He gradually reminisced less about Heaven and/or Hell, and whenever he returned to Hell’s offices to give his proper reports, he said as much as he needed to as quickly as possible before gladly riding the escalator back to the Earth.

News had reached Rome the previous year that Claudius successfully invaded Britain with an army led by General Aulus Plautius, as Caesar did many years before. The city vibrated with good spirits, but to Crowley, these celebrations bored him. He was never a real fan of wars and conquests, as they reminded him too much of Heaven and Hell’s rivalry. However, the opportunity to travel and to see new lands was appealing. So, he followed a convoy and relaxed as a snake among their food stores.

The boat eventually landed somewhere with high white chalky cliffs against the ocean.

When Crowley slipped out of the boat and into the water, a shock of holy hair caught his eye. Having the most casual stroll along the shore was Aziraphale, somehow brighter than the cliffs. Crowley slipped into the ocean and swam to the angel. Aziraphale must have been in one of the accompanying galleys.

Neither of them were surprised to see the other.

“Look, Crowley - it’s like the Almighty cut the hills with a knife,” Aziraphale commented as Crowley approached. With a splash on the waves, Crowley found his feet and his hands. He shook the scales off his skin and his hair sprouted once more from his head, maintaining the short stylish Roman cut. They had last met only two years prior when Aziraphale had introduced him to oysters in Rome.

“Or the sea eroded the land. Science,” Crowley responded, stepping away from the waters and onto the virgin beaches. He had had a near run-in with holy water only a few months before so the less time he spent in water, the better. Even the plainest water would make him double take. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of archaic sunglasses. “So, what brings you here, Aziraphale?”

“I’ve been asked to look over a Celtic tribe.”

“Oh? Your lot supports polytheism?”

“Of course not, but She cares for all Her people regardless of their belief.”

 _Minus the episode with the ark,_ thought Crowley but he smartly chose not to challenge the situation. “Best of luck then.”

“And what about you?” Aziraphale asked.

“Exploring. Hell doesn’t have much for me to do these days and frankly,” he pointed to the docked boat in the distance, “they didn’t need any of my help conquering this place.”

“I see.” Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “It looks like if we’re both in this unfamiliar land together. I’ll be an easy target if Hell does need you to get rid of a certain angel. Convenient.”

The insinuation sank in and Crowley spat out, “What? No, no, no. I’m not following you. If anything, I should accuse you of following me! You were the one who found me in Rome.”

“That was two years ago.”

“Why would I be following an angel around? It’s coincidence. Or, you know. Someone’s fault,” Crowley pointed to the sky. “Not mine.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, “we might be in the same island but we don’t need to be close together. We shouldn’t be anyway. You’re a demon and I’m an angel.”

Crowley’s nostrils flared. He tensed, ready to pounce. “You know what? I agree. I’m off then. It was good seeing you again, angel.”

They parted. Crowley was barely a hundred yards away before he realised that he had no idea where he was going. He did not want to do this alone. Britain was new territory and he was more vulnerable here than in Rome.He turned and saw that Aziraphale had also stopped walking, but unlike Crowley, had refused to turn around.

Crowley seized the opportunity. He calmly called out, “Oi, forget it. It’s our first day here. Once we get a lay of the land we can go off separately as planned, yeah? It’ll be inconvenient if you told your side you couldn’t find out how to get to those Celts because some Romans mistook you for the enemy.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders fell.

The walking journey from the boats to the closest Roman fort was four hours, crushed to barely half an hour by some strange divine intervention. With some sweet talking, easy money and believable travelling disguises, Aziraphale and Crowley were granted some cots and a small room within the fort. They conversed with the soldiers, gaining an understanding of north from south and who was situated where and Aziraphale shared a warm dinner with a commander’s wife as Crowley entertained the commander’s five year old son. As the sun fell, an errant thought crossed Crowley’s mind briefly that this was the longest he and Aziraphale spent time together.

The night was kept alive by torches that lined the mini-streets within the fort, and Crowley found himself walking along the high walls, looking far ahead into the British blackness. Being a fairly new fort, the structure was well-designed, big enough for multiple families to live within its walls, and simple enough that if they were to abandon it, it would not feel like an incredible loss. It distantly reminded Crowley of Eden.

“Young man, did you come alone? No wife or lover to accompany you?” asked a soldier on duty at one corner of the wall.

Crowley wasn’t in the mood for small conversation but he half-lied, “I came with... a friend.” Companion did not sound right.

“Ah. A _friend_ ,” said the soldier.

He was used to assumptions regarding his sexuality or gender, whether correct or incorrect. But with _Aziraphale_? Crowley frowned. He hid his red-hot face in the shadows and sneered.

“No worries. We are Romans after all. Although,” the soldier mused to himself. “It’s not usual to see two men who seem to be of equal status… but maybe that’s why Britain seems like a good place to travel. You can sort of disappear a little here, yes? And it’s good to have company on lonely days.”

But Crowley stomped off, unable to continue the conversation.

He made his way down to the room that he and Aziraphale regrettably shared. He should have asked for a separate room but he did note that Aziraphale had not protested either when the offer had been given.

Aziraphale was not asleep. Instead, he sat by a table, glowing yellow by candlelight, with a bowl of fruit and a small pocket-sized book with the tiniest manuscripted poems - the type of poems that rambled endlessly page after page. So immersed was he that he did not register Crowley entering.

There was un-reality in what Crowley saw - a painting beyond its time, before Caravaggio and Gentileschi. Aziraphale, bent over book, eyes fixated on handwritten ink telling stories, paper already yellowed by poor manufacturing, fruit properly placed in its bowl, shadows stretching on the wall behind him. The floors were covered with animal skins to provide homely insulation. The candle had been lit for hours.

Crowley coughed. Aziraphale looked up.

“Oh, hello Crowley.” He politely closed his book and with a crack resounding in his bones, he straightened his back and pushed the bowl of fruit to Crowley. “You must try these berries. They’re so different from what I am used to in Rome.”

How dare that soldier assume Crowley and Aziraphale were a couple. Crowley. Aziraphale. Demon. Angel. They were already struggling with their status as enemies and failing horribly. Crowley snarled, turned to the terribly uncomfortable cot and threw himself to bury beneath the thin blanket.

Did anyone inquire about their relationship to Aziraphale as the soldier did to Crowley? He thought of the commander’s wife who gossiped about other families during dinner, and who bemoaned a life locked within fort walls. And how would Aziraphale respond if one were to ask him?

_“Oh, no. We are natural enemies who somehow find themselves in the same place at the same time.”_

Or maybe he wouldn’t respond, and just smile to himself with self-satisfaction.

Then again, Crowley didn’t deny it to the soldier. He just ran away.

When Crowley peeked over his blanket, he saw Aziraphale had returned to his book, and the urge to grab the book, throw it out the door into mud and turn to Aziraphale and - hm.

Demons do not engage in sexual activity with each other. In the end, sex is a very human act, because it (ideally or non-ideally) leads to potential offspring. God had invented it to encourage procreation and Satan corrupted it to be pleasurable rather than necessary. For angels and demons, therefore, sex is rather useless.

Sex was interesting. It caused wars, broke families apart, sealed relationships. Crowley had used it as a weapon when necessary. He had tempted and seduced to get jobs done. He understood the appeal. His own human image was fashioned for it. Good cheekbones. Luxurious hair. The right clothes for the right time. The only unattractive feature were his eyes which he kept hidden anyway.

Sex was uninteresting. He was lying. Sex with _humans_ was uninteresting because it was oddly pointless. Crowley had tried to see what the fuss was about but there was something missing in the experience. He never questioned it and had assumed his position to be natural amongst demons, which was technically true. Hell used sex to lure humans deeper into damnation, but it was not something for divine or occult beings to voluntarily participate in. Thus, Crowley never bother to put in much effort outside of temptation.

Then again, food was equally as useless as sex. So, when Crowley looked to Aziraphale, who sat absorbed in material objects, popping berries into his mouth, he wondered….

He threw the blanket off himself and sat beside Aziraphale, pulling the bowl to himself and picked up an orange berry, forcing his whole attention to the little object between index and thumb. He desperately wanted to converse with Aziraphale without directly looking at him.

“Aziraphale. What have you tried since you’ve come here?”

“Pardon?”

“We’ve both tried food and alcohol. Have you tried sleep?”

“I prefer to do other activities than sleep.”

“But have you tried it?”

Aziraphale’s lips curled in thought. “Maybe a few millennia ago. Back when Earth really did not have much going on but it was uncomfortable. I was on a rock.”

“And what about human interactions?”

“You mean befriending humans.”

“Yes, but in the more horizontal sense.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Sex. I’m saying, have you tried sex?”

“You know Crowley, humans can have sex vertically.”

“ _Angel, have you tried sex?_ ”

“Yes.” Said so bluntly and without any shyness or pride. Aziraphale was staring at him and Crowley realised it must have been because of the dumb look on his face. “Haven’t you?”

How hedonistic was Aziraphale? With food and drink and now with flesh.

Aziraphale continued, ridding the silence. “I’ve made the effort. I thought you did too.”

“Why? Because I’m a demon?” Crowley, grabbing onto any remnant of cool, relaxed his body. He traced the outline of the bowl with his fingertips. “Tell me which you prefer: man or woman?” He threw the berry into his mouth and it popped with sweetness. “Or neither?”

Aziraphale froze. “Crowley.”

That was it. The hesitation was enough for Crowley to stop and realise his error. He pushed the bowl back to Aziraphale and stood. _We barely know each other after all. Don’t misread me._

“Crowley?”

“It was a joke, Aziraphale. I’m going to sleep.”

Crowley returned to his cot, fell onto it and closed his eyes. He did not sleep, but he knew human behaviour enough to mimic it - the eyes rolled upward below closed lids, the slack jaw. He was too embarrassed to let himself sleep.

Soon he could hear a shift in a chair and soft footsteps and he felt the blanket that lay at his waist drag upwards onto his torso. He expected to hear the footsteps return to the direction of the table but he felt a hand touch his arm. It was gentle, but motionless and Crowley made every effort not to flinch. Any extra movement would incorrectly hint at something beyond whatever platonic or antagonistic thing they had. Aziraphale moisturised, Crowley thought.

The hand radiated warmth, as it did by the Red Sea. Not the uncontrollable singe of holiness when Aziraphale was angry but the comfortable softness when Aziraphale was healing wounds.

Aziraphale is an angel. It was his duty to exude kindness, love and compassion.

Crowley told himself this, even after they separated the next morning and spent weeks, months and years apart. If he closed his eyes and thought hard, the spot on his arm where Aziraphale touched him would tingle with memory.

* * *

On his next visit to Hell, Beezlebub asked about The Angel. There was a rumour that had gotten down to Hell, though no one could pinpoint which angel it was. Crowley did not allow himself to give anything away.

“He’s been looking to thwart me,” Crowley said. “But it’s been easy; dangling a bit of temptation in front of him like a carrot on a string.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground, here Crowley.” Beezlebub said. “Are you looking to make enemies or are you doing your job?”

“Are they mutually exclusive?”

“I’m not joking, Crowley. Do not get close.”

Beelzebub touched his own face - the boils decorating his skin. Crowley had always been polite, never asking about Beelzebub’s scars or marks (many were natural and others had their own afflictions, including him) yet Beelzebub looked up. “I would know.”


	5. Feet

**1350 AD**

The black rat close to Crowley’s dangling feet cleaned its face and wriggled its whiskers.

Crowley was too used to sickness. The Plagues of Egypt had sometimes crept into his sleep. (Those days in Egypt were enough of an embarrassment and he and Aziraphale never mentioned their scuffle at the Red Sea ever again.) They were written about, recorded, painted and translated. Crowley shivered whenever he remembered the boils on human skin, the smell of blood and the dying children.

And now they were in the midst of Black Death. Was this also God’s doing, some three thousand years or so later? There were some humans who certainly believed that She was the cause but people blamed everything. Earthquakes. Each other. Astrological displacements. The air they breathed. 

Crowley, seeing the European population diminish, reached out to Aziraphale. He sent a note, “Meet me at the edge of London” and when they met, there was an unspoken understanding between them. This was not going to be a short trip. Aziraphale already had packed several cured meats and breads in a quaint basket and Crowley had an extra pair of overshoes for Aziraphale. They walked and travelled far away from the city to discuss business matters.

Along this journey, Aziraphale said that no, this was not the work of Heaven but also that they, the angels, were told not to interfere.

“Something to do with ineffability?”

“Yes, something to do with ineffability.”

The city dissolved into grasses and trees. The roads eventually disappeared leaving only trails and paths beaten flat by frequent feet.

The cities during these years reeked of fecal matter, rot and sickness but the English countryside smelled of greens and the remnants of that morning’s rain. Crowley almost forgot about his ability to smell, so burnt were his nostrils from London. He thought once more of Eden when he smelled for the first time and touched nearly everything in the garden. The Earth was so pure and virginal then, though Crowley was not one to reminisce on such naïve things. Who knew he would find solace in an angel? And who knew he would actively start looking for the angel whenever he needed company? Travel was still mostly by foot with towns and villages only fifteen miles or so apart from each other, so it was impossible for either of them to get lost.

When the sun finally reached at a low point in the sky, they agreed to rest. Eden was still on his mind so it felt like a coincidence that he and Aziraphale were again on a stone wall, this time a low man-made border on the outskirts of a sheep farm.

“Do you see the farmer’s house, Crowley? I’ve been told that the farmer and his wife are suffering because their daughter has fallen ill. A merchant told me this in London since his mutton supply had fallen low.”

Crowley picked up a stray rock and scraped it against the wall creating little dashes of chalky white. Aziraphale continued to relay the information. The family was so inland that it was not expected that the plague would reach them, but when the farmer had traded some of his sheep for oats and rye, disease had entered their homes.

These days were tiring. Both Heaven and Hell were doubling down on their duties because of the wars between France and England and while Aziraphale and Crowley were happy to just lie back and just observe, Aziraphale had to ensure that a young Geoffrey Chaucer would receive a good education to ensure a bright future while Crowley was assigned to meet with another young man named Edward of Woodstock (son of King Edward III) to encourage some brutality in him and follow his father’s footsteps in continuing the wars.

Geoffrey had been a natural reader and Edward was already a bit of a wile without Crowley’s influence though Crowley did suggest that black was a nice colour for him. Still, if Crowley thought about it, neither he nor Aziraphale would have succeeded in their duties without each other. Perhaps either Geoffrey or Edward would have strayed from his destined path. Crowley followed Chaucer when Aziraphale was unable to and Aziraphale inserted himself into the king’s court during necessary days to entertain Edward.

The angel and the demon were in need of a holiday. Aziraphale showed his cured meats from the basket he carried, warning that they should not boast about his food supply since meat was rare amongst commoners. Crowley declined though he tore from the bread and threw a bit to the black rat.

The rat scurried to the offering and nibbled before disappearing into the grass with an appreciative look back at Crowley.

Was the plague Hell’s doing then? There were no news from Hell to indicate that they had any influence and Crowley knew that Hell was not one to enjoy humans being destroyed by nature as much as humans being destroyed by themselves. So perhaps Black Death was just a part of nature, unrelated to Heaven, though possibly or impossibly related to God herself.

With so much of Eurasia already wiped out, they might as well just have another great flood.

Crowley looked down to where the rest of the bread was left by his pattens, which he had taken off. Fourteenth century shoes were uncomfortable with stupid pointy toes, stuffed with grass to maintain its shape and worse were those wooden overshoes. The fashion was terrible and he thought maybe to influence a shoemaker when he returned to London to encourage something a bit more pleasing to the eye.

As the grasses trembled with the wind and the sun cast a deep red glow in the sky, Crowley looked to the sad, silent and suffering house. He thought of the girl, who was not granted any blessings from above. She had not been graced with the luck that Geoffrey Chaucer did, of some bright future where she may potentially write, play music or dream of anything else beyond her father’s farm. Hell did not give her a chance either. Hell did not think she might have the possibility of a proper witch, femme fatale or jezebel. Instead, both sides left her alone to die from the bubonic plague leaving her future to inevitability.

“Angel, you know, if one family is healed. Just one family. Heaven wouldn’t really mind.”

“Heaven said not to interfere.”

“Well, perhaps, if you had to.”

“If I had to?” Aziraphale looked to Crowley.

“Let’s say a demon was doing a bit of tempting. Poor influencing. You know, causing a bit of chaos in a small family household and the only way to stop it was to do a bit of thwarting.”

“And then,” Aziraphale continued for Crowley. “That thwarting somehow also cured a sickness.”

“Exactly.” Crowley’s smile stretched widely. “None would be wiser. You could always, I don’t know, report how you didn’t know that some miracle went a bit too far. Like a side effect.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said carefully. “What exactly are the limitations of our arrangement? We have never worked together before for a cause unrelated to Heaven and Hell.”

“Forget Heaven and Hell, angel. At some point it’s probably not going to matter.”

“Don’t say that,” Aziraphale said frowning.

“Do you really see yourself working for Heaven for all of eternity?”

“Yes. That is what we were made to do.”

This disappointed Crowley. There were times when Aziraphale exposed that rebellious wire in him and times when he obeyed like a Pavlovian dog, if Pavlov was yet born.

“Only one family, Aziraphale.”

“Only one?”

“Only one.”

Aziraphale chewed his cured mutton in thought.

“And how would that work?” Aziraphale asked.

“Let’s say,” Crowley improvised, looking at the simple food in Aziraphale’s hands. “I plant the idea in the farmer’s mind to poison the sheep with the intention of selling the poisoned sheep. And you came across this foul plan. Word on the street.”

“And somehow I had to miracle the sickness from the sheep.”

“Only the sheep.”

“Unless I miracled the sickness from everyone on the farm.”

“Including the girl.”

Aziraphale returned Crowley’s smile. “Only one, Crowley. One family.”

“Of course,” Crowley lied.

Aziraphale packed the remnants of his meal into his basket, slid off the wall, onto the grass and picked up one of Crowley’s pattens.

“The fourteenth century has such poor tastes,” Aziraphale said holding up the wooden slipper-like object.

“I’m glad we can agree on something,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale reached, held Crowley’s heel, and slipped the overshoe on. The act was so unexpected and sudden, Crowley hadn’t allowed himself the mental capacity to react. Crowley still had his shoes on, but the leather was weak and thin allowing him to feel every rock, every crack and now every finger. He let his foot raise without protest, feeling plump fingers envelope his Achilles tendon. This touch was much more simple - hand upon foot; skin upon skin. Not the angelic sear of the Red Sea nor the warm healing of 44 B.C. Crowley thought to himself that this was the first time he and Aziraphale were actually equals.

It was innocent enough that neither of them mentioned it after. Aziraphale then picked up the second patten and slipped that onto Crowley’s other foot. 

The sun was setting, bathing Aziraphale in gold.

“Come on, we have some tempting and blessing to perform.”

As Aziraphale walked toward the farmhouse, Crowley jumped from the wall and followed, an unusual spring in his step.

His leather shoestrings remained untied.


	6. Chest

**1872-1941 AD**

At some point in the mid-19th Century, Crowley walked down the steps into Hell, formulating some new stories to give Beelzebub about Earth.

There was always some war, so he thought he could grab onto one and use it for credit.

Workers were building new constructions beside the staircases. One said it would be the trip to Hell easier.

“I call it a _Lower_. You know, how the humans call them _lifts_.”

Crowley tipped his hat and sauntered further down, bypassing the endless queues and the cubicles. His sense of touch was fading again as it always did whenever he was entering Hell. He waved hello to a few other demons and walked directly and boldly into Beelzebub’s office.

Dagon was there, conversing privately with Beezlebub. As Crowley entered the room, Dagon stood, hands behind his back as if ready to pounce.

“Crowley. Funny seeing you here. What’s this I hear about an angel?”

 _About some thousand years too late_ , Crowley thought.

“What about an angel?” Crowley innocently asked as Dagon circled him.

Beelzebub remained unmoved in his chair. The sight before him was on par with theatrical entertainment.

“I’ve heard you’ve been meeting with - what’s that angel’s name?” Dagon turned to Beelzebub.

“Oooh, you mean,” Crowley snapped his fingers, pretending to remember. “I know who you are talking about. Dagon, you believe those rumours? I didn’t think you’d be so gullible. Besides, you should know: if you touch an angel, you might as well be touching holy water.”

Dagon’s lip curled in annoyance.

“Are you here to ask about a rumour?” Crowley asked.

“Careful Crowley. You might be Satan’s favourite but to some of us,” Dagon stood at the door frame, pausing only for a second to give his dramatic exit, “you may be a liability.”

Crowley knew the threat was empty but the fear still reached him and he thought quickly of a possible insurance plan that may keep him safe.

He asked for holy water from Aziraphale only about a week later.

* * *

Time on Earth was linear. In Heaven, time had no true thread. Divine Time was compressed and expanded - he was born, then creating stars except that took only a few days yet it took millenia in his memory. Again, this is difficult to explain for Human comprehension.

However, the surge in human development since the 1700s was so tremendous that time felt as if it were compressing. As Earth rolled its way towards present day, Crowley witnessed in the last few centuries, cities be built, technology develop and art soar beyond representation. During his first millennium on Earth he had wandered about aimlessly but in the 19th century, in between bouts of sleep, Crowley saw human capabilities bloom beyond recognition.

He thought of this as he stared up at the collection of paintings, from floor to ceiling in the new Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was 1872 and he was in New York City during the museum’s opening at the initial location of 681 Fifth Avenue. With paintings stacked upon each other salon-style and the light flooding the space from the skylights above he felt the strangest sense of admiration for humans. How remarkable are they to take paint to canvas and create images, then display them, sell them, collect them for the love of _beauty_. He gazed up at the paintings: a few contemporary (at the time) works and several Dutch masters. A crowd had formed in another room and he wandered, transporting himself from present to past. Another incredible thing about humans: time travel was not possible (debatable), but with a museum, humans ensured to remind people of a time before theirs.

He walked into a room with a variety of masterpieces depicting angels, angels smiting demons, angels guarding over humans, angels, angels, angels (and of course, many of Christ on his cross). He looked to the crowd instinctively to see if maybe he could spot an angel amongst the humans. A joke was sitting on his tongue and he wanted to share it with someone. No angels were spotted, so he swallowed and continued into the other room exhibiting French Impressionism.

It had been barely ten years, one month, and five days since he and Aziraphale last met in St. James’s Park in London. The last he had seen the angel, Aziraphale was marching away after tossing a piece of paper with the words ‘Holy Water’ into the pond. He hadn’t intended to stay in New York (or even in America) for long but suddenly a luxurious room opened up for him in a hotel on Fifth Avenue and that night, he fell into its bed and dipped into a deep sleep.

In 1882, he was in Paris to see Manet’s latest painting, _Un Bar Aux Folies Bergère_ , in the Paris Salon. When he had seen the angelic paintings at the Met ten years earlier, the angels’ eyes were always elsewhere: the figure they were blessing, rolled upwards in ecstasy or toward the demon they were smiting. Crowley was always looking at them and they were looking somewhere else. Here, he was looking at the human barmaid and the human barmaid, surrounded by modern inventions and modern technology, was looking back at him. This was not new in art, especially not with Manet, whose female figures seemed to always challenge their audience, but (perhaps because of his sour mood) it was the first time Crowley felt like he was connecting with a painted two-dimensional woman. He imagined the shitty job she was hired to do. The men who tried to woo her with a little extra money when they purchased the Bass beer. Maybe she was daydreaming of some other lover. Maybe she had no lover and just wanted to get through the evening. Maybe life was moving too quickly around her and she wanted a pause, and here she was, telling her viewer: _‘Stay in this moment with me.’_

It didn’t matter which narrative was true. He felt the deepest shared thread with the fictional figure before him and his chest _hurt_.

Perhaps coincidence would be on his side as it was in Mesopotamia and during the French Revolution. He listened for any uptight angelic voice and looked for any white halo of hair. Any whisper of a rumour of an aristocrat in the wrong place at the wrong time. In 1882, however, he was amongst only humans. He spotted Manet, weakened with age, surrounded by socialites. He was explaining to a small group of gallery go-ers that this would be his last major work, probably. Manet, spotting Crowley, limped towards him.

“Ah, the devil walks,” Manet said.

“I should say the same,” Crowley said, fashionable dark glasses slipping down very slightly to reveal the _possibility_ of yellow eyes.

“My legs will soon permanently give in but I hope to walk again in the afterlife. Do you think I belong in Heaven or in Hell?”

“From my knowledge, artists generally walk to Hell. But trust me, it’s no better than Heaven. Just maybe a bit damper.” And Crowley wondered what Aziraphale would have said. Manet had a demon on one shoulder but no angel on the other.

Crowley returned to London later than year, the barmaid still imprinted in his mind, and went back to sleep in his Mayfair flat. Manet passed away the following year.

In 1892, Hastur visited him (barged into Crowley’s flat while Crowley was still asleep) to scold Crowley for wasting time. Hell was impatient and after Crowley had received a commendation for the French Revolution, it seemed like the Resident Demon on Earth had nothing else to present or report. Crowley was stuck. He truly had nothing to contribute and the humans were going fine without anything much devilry happening. He wrote a few petty activities such as _forgetting things as soon as one walks through a door, leaving food in ovens for a tad too long so they’re always a little charred but not burnt enough to be tossed away_ and sent those reports to Hell without much thought. Hell was not happy. Crowley was revealing himself to be an incredibly lazy employee.

In this year as well, as he wandered the city in the deepest of foul moods, Crowley found a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories in a nearby bookshop from his flat. He thought to purchase it and give it to Aziraphale and tell Aziraphale to forget everything, let’s go and get drunk together, I can figure out how to get holy water on my own, or maybe he’d omit that last bit, but then wondered if Aziraphale already had a copy. Aziraphale was a bookshop owner after all. He thought of maybe purchasing the book anyway and reading these stories so that when they next meet he could quote from Sherlock Holmes and impress with slick deductive reasoning.

His head casually hit the glass display with a little thump and he wondered if Aziraphale had been thinking of him as well.

Maybe Aziraphale was actively avoiding him.

He could not tell what was worse. The idea that Aziraphale was making the effort to dodge Crowley (for at least it meant that Crowley was on Aziraphale’s mind) or maybe Aziraphale did not care at all and it was only a matter of fate that they no longer collided into each other.

He walked about in Soho and saw The Bookshop in the peripheries and saw that it was closed. He went back home.

Between 1892 and 1897, he befriended Albert de Belleroche, a Welsh artist, because maybe just maybe he got wind that an A.Z. Fell was within Belleroche’s friend circle. John Singer Sargent (Belleroche’s studio mate) had casually mentioned to Crowley that Oscar Wilde and Mr. Fell were good friends, and suddenly Crowley was always showing up at their studio, craning his neck to see if they had invited any friends, and always showed up to social parties they attended. Destiny or maybe Someone was keeping him and Aziraphale apart for whenever Crowley missed an event, he would hear through the grapevine that Mr Fell was present. Eventually Belleroche and Sargent no longer mentioned Mr. Wilde once Mr. Wilde got into trouble with the law.

In 1902, Crowley, mildly frustrated with the tempestuous and gossipy art scene, fell in love with film. He watched _Le Voyage dans La Lune_ and again remarked how incredible humans were for such an achievement. He watched the film ten times and memorised much of it. He also reported to Hell on his invention of film scratches and film stock getting caught in magazines. Crowley had to be a bastard _somehow_.

In 1912, the R.M.S. Titanic sailed and sank. Crowley was not related to this incident. In fact he had missed the news about it entirely despite it covering nearly every newspaper in the city. Instead, Crowley hid himself in dark nickelodeons, movie theatres and opera houses and brooded in their seats. He stayed in London throughout most of this year. Sleeping, then going to the theatres, then sleeping again, without much food or masturbation to occupy him otherwise.

His heart ached.

Aziraphale had removed all flesh and bone from his chest, grabbed his heart and squeezed it, wringing it of all sanity. When Aziraphale was not there, Aziraphale was in Crowley’s head, and when Aziraphale was in Crowley’s head, Crowley drowned the noises in his mind via endless films. Crowley did not need Aziraphale to physically touch him to affect him and he knew the feeling for some time. It had been there since Biblical days and only now he was accepting it as fact.

Crowley loved, still loved and will love Aziraphale.

It really pissed him off.

He watched a black and white Cleopatra mourn her lover’s death, gripping Mark Antony’s shoulders then rising and crying to the heavens, then shaking his shoulders once more. The real Cleopatra had not been anything like how Helen Gardner depicted her on screen, but Crowley allowed himself to forget his pretenses. 

Crowley brought his own hand to his chest and gripped the fabrics on his shirt. The stars seemed endless to humans but he knew what was at the very edge. He had been there during its creation after all. But with all the stars in the sky, lined from one end of the universe to the other, he knew it could not measure up to how much he actually did love this angel. During his stint in Heaven he couldn’t feel so he wondered if maybe Earth was more like Hell because he hurt now on Earth. Instead of the searing obvious physical burn, it was a deeper pull in his non-existent heart that also coated his throat, making it difficult to swallow. Unlike Hell where he wanted to get out as soon as possible, he wanted to stay on Earth. In a masochistic way, he enjoyed the hurt. He just wanted Aziraphale to talk to him again, to ease the ache, salve the wound like he did in Egypt, slip the overshoe over his vulnerable foot.

_“To lie in the silent grave by your dear side, Antony, is life! This wakefulness is a thousand deaths!”_

When the film ended, he left the theatre in a daze, unsure if he enjoyed the film or not.

Thirty or so years later, some time after the Bentley, and colour and sound took over films and abstract art became more mainstream, and wars came and went (and he wrote reports on things he did not do) and time compressed more and more, Crowley, heard from someone who knew someone who knew someone that a bookseller was negotiating with the Nazis in a church.

Crowley had no evidence, nothing to prove that this was Aziraphale, but he lingered at the outside of that church anyway and listened. It was night. His shoes were stylish, but he knew they were going to burn away with holiness soon. But really, he thought he had to look good and give a proper first impression.

_“Played for suckers!”_

What a terrible line. Crowley rolled his eyes. He really did love Aziraphale.

In 1941, Crowley was no longer surrounded by only humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some information on the history of the Metropolitan Museum of Art of New York City: [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Metropolitan_Museum_of_Art#History)  
> [A Bar at the Folies-Bergère](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Bar_at_the_Folies-Berg%C3%A8re) (1882) by Édouard Manet. Currently exhibited at Courtauld Gallery, London.  
> And of course: [Cleopatra (1917, silent film)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cleopatra_\(1917_film\)). Lines are directly from the film.


	7. Cheek

**1999-2000 AD**

When Crowley was an angel, he had, like many angels did, a golden mark. It was beautiful - a simple but classy mark close to his right ear. A golden design drawn on his right cheek right where his hairline had ended. When he fell, the design transformed, tattooing itself as a snake facing towards Hell, blackening to remind him of his punishment. As a last defiance, he never bothered to hide it.

It looked cool anyway.

Technically, the new millennium would start at ‘2001’, not ‘2000’, but Earth was preparing for an end of an era regardless. Companies, fed full with Y2K paranoia, updated their computers in time before the Christmas holidays. Discount stores sold sunglasses with 2000 printed across the eyes where the middle zero’s would be the dark lenses. Crowley had purchased a pair along with a cheap cardboard top hat.

Mayfair was lifeless, but in Soho the streets were overrun with party-goers, planning their night. A party at this person’s house. Or maybe we’ll crash at this other person’s flat. Hotels were hosting expensive New Year galas. Supermarkets sold alcohol at twice the usual market value yet customers handed their money easily. There was to be a huge fireworks display at the Thames, the first for the city of London, along with a planned ‘River of Fire’.

Our demon, Crowley, who used New Year’s as an excuse to just drink, be merry and revel in the strange human appreciation for an updated calendar, found himself in Aziraphale’s bookshop at ten in the night of the 31st of December, 1999. This was unusual. The pair never celebrated holidays together. They had no birthdays and so no cake to share with blown candles, no desire to celebrate religious holidays (borderline blasphemous) and no true citizenship to take public holidays into consideration. Instead, they both would remark every year that celebrations somehow got more ridiculous.

So again, what was different was that Crowley was in Aziraphale’s bookshop on New Year’s Eve. Crowley had recently filled his spare time with classic terrible Christmas movies. He considered bringing an unholy Pagan Christmas Tree into his flat before realising how sadistic it would look to the other plants. He might be a bastard but he wasn’t that terrible. He eyed mistletoe traditions and thought them to be stupid, really. And once Christmas dissolved into Boxing Day, which dissolved into a weird nothingness before the New Year was scheduled to come, Crowley, feeling bored, a little lonely and sick from the overdose of Christmas nonsense, drove to Soho and somehow found parking in the most jammed streets in front of the bookshop.

Aziraphale had no complaints. He welcomed Crowley with a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. The doors closed behind Crowley, and the curtains were drawn to hide them from the outside noise of young revelers. 

“New Year’s Resolutions,” Crowley said loudly and suddenly, when both were in the comforts of the back room. He was sprawled comfortably on the sofa, as if it were his own. Considering the number of times he had visited, it might as well have been. He looked to the covered windows and a magazine article on good feng shui floated into his mind. “I want a desk by the window.”

“Resolutions were made for you to better yourself,” Aziraphale said.

“I resolve to get a desk by the window.”

“I will be nicer to customers.”

“Liar.”

They clinked their glasses for the hundred and twenty first time that night. Crowley looked at the clock. Five past ten. Maybe it would have been smarter to join one of the drunken human parties. They certainly knew how to make the time fly faster. 

“I bet you,” Crowley began, searching for his next series of well arranged words, “three temptations you wouldn’t be able to sell three books within this coming January. Three different people. Pounds must enter the till. Hands must be shaken. Five pence per bag. Ten pence off if they bring their own.”

“Ah…” Aziraphale continued. “Perhaps not the best resolution.” He leaned back in his chair and thought deeply. “I will... try to get out more.”

“Good resolution.”

They clinked their champagne glasses for the hundred and twenty second time. Crowley looked at the clock. Ten past ten. The idea churned in Crowley’s head and he stood, felt the liquids swish around his head and he fell back onto the couch.

“Aziraphale. We should join everyone at the Thames.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Resolutions start when the clock strikes twelve, not before.”

“If we’re there when the clock strikes twelve, you’ve gotten one resolution out of the way. Sort of.”

“For what purpose?”

“To watch the fireworks. Of all the dangerous human inventions that exist where both dogs and birds scatter at the sound, you cannot deny the appeal of London having a spectacular millennial show not knowing if it could be a potential suicide attempt.”

“And what is the alternative?”

“We stay in and continue to drink as we do.”

“I prefer the alternative.”

As the minute hand crawled from the twelve to the thirteen, with the hour hand fixed in place, Crowley coaxed further. At first he pretended to give in and wistfully and pointedly looked at the window. He then declared to go off on his own, left the bookshop, stumbled drunkenly a full circle around the block and casually stepped back into the shop to coax a little further, and soon Aziraphale, still drunk and annoyed, caved. They left the shop (confirmed closed by a concerned Aziraphale), entered the Bentley and zoomed away, swerving and closely missing a lamp post.

They eventually parked in an illegal spot and joined the mob.

Aziraphale never allowed himself to be drunk in public, but with half the city staggering together and swaying unconsciously by the end of the River Thames, Aziraphale hiccupped with a resolved ‘this is what it is’. Crowley cheered with the crowds and he looked to the Clock Tower: five minutes to twelve. He had donned the kitsch sunglasses but conveniently had forgotten his top hat in the Bentley. Crowley knew that once the celebrations were over, he would spend over an hour trying to find where it would be, but right now he didn’t care. It was not often he and Aziraphale’s shoulders were pressed together so publicly. If Hell were to find him, he would have no excuse as to why he was ‘fraternising’ with an angel.

Everyone was huddled in knit hats and mittens and extra layers, ballooning themselves in down and wool. Crowley, maintaining chic, was sleek and uncaring. But with bodies against each other, it was unusually warm. Perhaps it was his proximity to Aziraphale, but he did not think much about it.

“Party horns for sale!” An opportune salesman screamed nearby.

“Oi!” Crowley called out to him, suddenly inspired. He procured some coins, thanked the salesman, and slipped one horn into Aziraphale’s mouth, who promptly spat it out.

“No, Crowley. This is undignified.”

“Have some fun angel. Who are you trying to protect your pride from? It’s me.”

Aziraphale wiped the end of the horn and shoved it into Crowley’s mouth who promptly gave a toot - the tail uncoiled and tickled Aziraphale’s nose.

“Countdown is starting!” Someone shouted and suddenly everyone turned to the river.

A warm breath graced his ear. “Your tattoo.”

He turned, nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw how close Aziraphale really was. The angel was leaning dangerously close, alcohol still warm on his breath. Aziraphale’s half-focused eyes were concentrating on the side of Crowley’s face.

“What about it?” The party horn still dangling from Crowley’s lips.

“I never asked where you got it. Is it like your eyes? When you -.” Fill in the blank: fell. Aziraphale swallowed, realising his forwardness. Despite their public conversation about their divinity or lack thereof, there was an unusual intimacy between them.

Crowley never forgot the feather upon his forehead.

“I’m a demon, angel. Any way to remind me of that, they will do it.” _They_ will take his golden mark and burn that like they burned his wings. Mock him for his mistakes. He thought that Aziraphale would say ‘Oh all right’ because some things about Heaven and Hell were a bit unspoken between them. But no. This time - 

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Aziraphale reached and touched it lightly - from the snake’s tail to the head. An angelic attempt to uncurl the creature on the side of his face as if to uncurl Crowley’s heart, to uncurl the party horn, now abandoned on the floor. Crowley held his breath. It was magic. Electrical sparks, tracing the lines from when Aziraphale’s fingers landed on his skin to when they left. Every colour in the universe within that arc. Positive touching negative. A car battery going bang. Crowley might as well explode.

“Careful, Angel. Don’t go too fast,” said with a knowing smile. Aziraphale’s face flushed a deep red.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

He suspected Aziraphale’s affection for him for years even without definite proof though he never abused that knowledge. 

He suspected that Aziraphale knew Crowley’s own affection for Aziraphale. And yet they stood there like two morons at the edge of the Thames River unwilling to lean forward. An apple was hanging between them, but neither of them dared to touch it, lest either would be punished. They were cursed to be ignorant of each other despite loving each other.

Four.

And yet, Crowley was close friends with temptation. He was the one who pushed the idea into Eve’s mind. He saw firsthand that temptation did not destroy Eve but instead gave her knowledge, free will and the ability to question. He had been jealous of the first two humans on Earth. So maybe he needed to push himself. A literal shove into Aziraphale’s arms. The strongest desire swelled in his chest choking him alive. They could both use the excuse that they were both drunk and didn’t know what they were doing.

Three.

Crowley’s eyes fell to Aziraphale’s lips. They were moist.

Two.

A new year. A new century. A new millennium. A new beginning. This should be it.

One.

Couples around them cheered loud ‘Happy New Year’s!’ and immediately turned to their loved ones and kissed. These couples embraced each other, laughing. They kissed each other on his, her or their cheek. They grabbed scarves downwards to capture hungry lips. Aziraphale and Crowley stood like statues, staring at each other, amongst the flowing bodies. 

This should be it, but it wasn’t.

“Happy New Year, Crowley.” Aziraphale held out his hand.

“Happy New Year, Aziraphale.” Crowley took it, masking the expected disappointment in his voice.

They watched the disappointing River of Fire, which sputtered unceremoniously. Neither were bothered to miracle anything to save it. The crowds eventually dispersed and Aziraphale and Crowley again separated; Aziraphale, to his bookshop in Soho and Crowley, to the empty, cold and non-Aziraphale-filled flat in Mayfair.

He could still feel Aziraphale’s touch on his cheek for days. Warm as ever. The hint of dangerous holiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more: [New Year's Eve in London (1999-2000)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Year%27s_Eve_in_London#2000%E2%80%9305)


	8. Mouth

**2019 AD**

The truth is that angels and demons cannot touch each other without harming themselves and the other. For a demon, an angel’s touch is equivalent to stepping onto holy ground - hot and uncomfortable. Only Crowley and Aziraphale were able to fight this truth after many years. Now, they shake hands, touch each other’s feet, pat each other on the back, graze fingertips when trading a bag full of books.

On the Sunday after Armageddon, they took a risk. They switched bodies and bet on the possibility that if an angel were to touch Crowley-as-Aziraphale, he would not burn and the angels would not scream, and if a demon were to touch Aziraphale-as-Crowley, the demons would not shout and Aziraphale would not cry.

It was a risk worth taking.

* * *

Some months had passed since then.

Since the post-non-Apocolypse, God had remained impassive and mysterious as ever. Wars continued. The Earth was still killing itself with climate change. Governments were corrupt. He and Aziraphale, as much as their shared experience brought them closer together, were still ten thousand miles apart. Things were the same but no higher-ups to report to. For now. Beezlebub and Gabriel were still overrun with paperwork on how to re-establish their positions in both Hell and Heaven, respectively.

And for the first time ever, Crowley had a dream.

This was unusual because angels and demons do not dream. Dreams are for those who wish for things. For humans who aspire to greater achievements or fear something unknown. So, for angels and demons, who have no goals beyond getting the job done (for the most part), dreams are impossibilities, sort of a scientific thing that occurs in humans and not for divine beings. Dreams are equivalent to fecal matter and ear wax; byproducts of humanity and necessary for the human-machinery to function but not really found in angels or demons.

So, it came as a massive surprise when Crowley had his first dream six thousand years into existence. You’d think it was something incredible or erotic, or a nightmare. Instead, he dreamt he was in a garden again, this time without walls. The garden stretched for miles and when he bent to touch the grass, he couldn’t feel it.

Aziraphale was there. Of course he was. Aziraphale was in his daydreams, so why would he not be in his night dreams? He reached out for Crowley. The skin on skin contact brought back the sense memory of their night by the Red Sea and the warm pain heated his arm, shocking Crowley into wakefulness .

He woke up sweating.

For one unused to dreaming, it is easy to become massively confused. They present themselves as a distorted truth and when one wakes up, it may be hard to distinguish dream from reality. Shadwell, back when he used to work for Crowley, used to talk about his own dreams in excessive detail so for the briefest moment, Crowley thought to seek him for advice. He dismissed it quickly when he realised how stupid the idea was and life continued.

Aziraphale and Crowley sometimes met for lunch. They sometimes met by the park, though their meetings were not as clandestine. They watched films together - or at least Crowley did, while Aziraphale kept asking questions. Aziraphale read while Crowley made mischief. Crowley tended to his plants while Aziraphale performed good deeds.

When he had his second dream, Crowley panicked. In it, he dreamt of losing his sense of touch again - similar to his days in Heaven when touch was an ethereal quality.

In the darkness of his mind behind closed eyelids, he was floating, flying, reaching for the stars he helped build and his fingers were nonexistent. He had his empty and untouched chest but now he was untouched everywhere. As his dream continued, he was back in Eden when he spotted a figure. This figure was glowing, more powerful than Crowley ever could with a brightness no human could ever understand. Instead of the calm, sympathetic Angel who admitted to giving his sword away, it was a terror in divine form. Crowley reached out for this figure, the skin on his palms bubbling and boiling.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley blurted out - both in his dream and in real life. The last syllable hung on his lips when his eyes opened. It was still dark outside.

Only a few minutes later, Crowley jumped into his car, still in silky black pyjamas but with his usual sunglasses jammed onto his face, and drove to West End.

Aziraphale was not asleep, as expected. Crowley barged through the doors and marched to the back of the bookshop. Aziraphale, in an echo of 44 AD, was silhouetted Caravaggio-style, glasses balanced on his nose bridge and his body bent over a large book. He didn’t even notice Crowley coming in, despite the dramatic noises and coughs.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale looked up. “Oh, hello Crowley.”

_Déjà vu._

The adrenaline in Crowley’s blood quick drained, replaced by a silly unsure emotion. Aziraphale removed his glasses and folded them neatly behind his reading.

What was Crowley expecting to see? Or say?

Aziraphale, sending the unusual awkwardness broke the silence. “Crowley?”

Coolly, Crowley relaxed, dragging his fingers along the edge of the desk. A film of dust stuck to his fingertips.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. “Now, before you remark on the state of -”

“Why does dust feel like oil sometimes?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The two _feelings_ don’t make sense. Shouldn’t dust feel dusty? And not oily?” He threw himself onto a chair and swung his legs over the armrests. “I’m not dreaming.”

“I don’t suppose you are.”

“Because if I did, I would not be able to feel the desk anyway.” Usually, to create the ping-pong pattern of conversation, Aziraphale would say something here. Instead, the silence began again. Aziraphale, still confused, pieced the clues in his mind. Crowley waved his hand, flicking the dust away. His eyes drifted to a bowl of fruit beside the book.

“Have you been dreaming?” asked Aziraphale, very simply.

Why did he even bother coming to Aziraphale’s bookshop? “As soon as I close my eyes.”

Aziraphale nearly jumped and he pulled his own chair closely to Crowley.

“What is it like?” Aziraphale asked with curious eyes. Crowley blinked. It was the first time in many years that he had seen Aziraphale so _hungry_. They both thought they had uncovered everything regarding humanity.

“Like living an extra day.”

Aziraphale was already reaching for a hidden bottle of red wine behind a stash of books. Crowley watched the angel stretch and easily push books aside. A book caught onto his jacket, and another prodded itself into Aziraphale’s belly. Angels, in their original form, do not have fat. Nor do they have bone, skin or blood and yet here they were with physical corporations that could expand, contract, grow hair and lose hair if they allowed themselves to. So why couldn’t they dream? And why could Crowley now dream?

As if Aziraphale could read Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale asked: “What do you dream about?”

“This and that.” He took the wine glass from Azirphale’s offering hand.

“Humans have a methodology of interpreting dreams.” Aziraphale smiled. He was mocking Crowley, for taking dreams too seriously. “Losing teeth. School examinations. Falling.” He sipped his wine.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “I dreamt about an angel.”

Aziraphale, unfazed, finished his glass in barely two gulps. Crowley waited for any response but the angel ignored him, putting his full attention into refilling it.

“I imagine that an interpretation would be that angels were meant to be messengers of God. But you and I know the truth.”

The corner of Crowley’s lip turned upward. “You still surprise me, Angel.”

Aziraphale continued. “Did that angel happen to say anything?”

“No, he only flirted,” Crowley lied, sipping his own wine.

Aziraphale nodded and casually said. “That’s a bit unusual for an angel to flirt with a human. I’m not sure if there’s an interpretation of that reading.”

Crowley was always thankful for his sunglasses. With them on he exuded coolness. Without them, every twitch in his eye would reveal his embarrassment. “Yes, but the dreamer was not human.”

Flirting between the two became more obvious since the non-Apocalypse though they never ventured beyond a tease, but there was an understanding between the two that if one was to truly cross that boundary, the other would not protest. The only question was when. Crowley frequently thought this. When? There was nothing keeping them from really stepping over that boundary. It was more difficult in 1999 when they were still working for Heaven or Hell. It was even more difficult during Ancient times when authorities had taken their jobs a bit more seriously (lots of smiting in the olden days).

But now.

Here.

Crowley watched Aziraphale, with his own head resting on a bored hand. He imagined that romance would truly spark between them once Gabriel and the other angels tossed him back to Earth after the whole hellfire business. Maybe he thought that after the Ritz they would have done something beyond chatting.

Aziraphale sat with his hands on his thighs. It never crossed Crowley’s mind how Aziraphale _really_ looked. To Crowley, Aziraphale, in human form, was perfection. A soft body with soft hair. Eyes that carried sympathy but a mischievousness since their days on Eden. Unlike other angels, Aziraphale, with six thousand years of added experience, had a complexity within the body, compared to the easy perfection of Gabriel, Michael and whoever else in Heaven. So to imagine what the truth beneath human skin was actually like….

“I dreamt about you.”

Aziraphale nearly dropped his glass. The boundary was now officially crossed. He stared at Crowley. Crowley swallowed and continued, carefully choosing his words.

“I dreamt I couldn’t touch you. We were in Eden, and then I couldn’t feel the grass. Or the wall. And then I saw you, except it wasn’t you. Not as you are now but as something less understandable. You know. How angels are.”

And here in reality, Crowley reached out and touched Aziraphale’s hand. It burned. They both recoiled in surprise.

“Crowley, I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are a demon and I am an angel and it cannot happen.”

“Aziraphale, what? We don’t have anyone breathing down our necks. If there’s any time, it’s now.”

He was taking one step forward then ten steps back.

Crowley could feel his own clothing fabric against his skin, the coolness of the wine glass against his lips. The odd oiliness of Aziraphale’s dusty desk still on his fingers, the soft cushion his buttocks were sitting upon.

“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale motioned to stand before Crowley grabbed his wrists and pulled him back into his seat. Aziraphale’s wrists were hot. Crowley’s palms were burning, but he didn’t move. It hurt so badly - like dipping his hands into holy water.

“Crowley, let go,” Aziraphale said.

But Crowley didn’t.

Crowley fell to his knees before Aziraphale, his kneecaps hitting the wooden floor with a smack. His lips trembled trying to find the words. “Listen to me, angel. I dream about specific memories of our time here on Earth. The Globe Theatre. Rome. The Red Sea.”

“We don’t talk about the Red Sea.”

“ _I’m_ talking about the Red Sea.” Crowley wasn’t sure how long he could continue holding Aziraphale. “I don’t want to go back to that time. I want to be able to touch you. You don’t want us to be together? Fine. We don’t have to. We don't have to touch. We can be friends without touching. But I WANT to be able to touch you. To shake your hand. To not be afraid that we’ll revert back to Eden.”

He looked up at a standing Aziraphale. Angel above.

“Crowley, let go.” Crowley released Aziraphale’s wrists. Feeling returned to his palms and he flexed his fingers in relief. “Get up.”

Crowley remained prostrated on the floor. Aziraphale reached and removed Crowley’s sunglasses. Crowley stared at the untinted Aziraphale, his throat drying.

“Crowley. Get off your knees.”

Slowly, Crowley stood.

“We are on our own side.” Aziraphale said, more to himself than to anyone else. “Each time we touched, I always wondered why it hurt less each time. At first I wanted it. And then it hurt less. And I still wanted it. And I made any small excuse to touch you.

And suddently, Crowley felt Aziraphale’s lips upon his. Magma. Collected knives piercing his lips.Tears formed in the corner of Crowley’s eyes before the electricity fizzed at the tip of their tongues. His hands were in Aziraphale’s - also burning wildly and suddenly they were holding onto each other for dear life.

His fingers traced Aziraphale’s stupid tartan collar before he pulled away only slightly to mumble, “Ouch.”

Aziraphale laughed a joyous laugh.


	9. Everything

** 2020 AD **

That night in Aziraphale’s bookshop, they held onto each other for hours, then days, then weeks, fighting their skins to ensure that they would not lose the other. Finally, a month passed before they parted. When Crowley touched Aziraphale, the touch was something different - not human, not angelic but something else remarkable. It was a pain and pleasure beyond something describable, beyond even something religious. Aziraphale became Crowley’s favourite thing to touch.

Their relationship changed as the days passed, first in excessive hand holding, then the slightest touch of the lips, then deeper. The boundary faded. Imagine that their angelic and demonic bodies fused into something without skin to separate them.

But really, they, in human form, simply spent their time together.

Finally, on an ordinary day, Aziraphale was in Crowley’s flat. The light cut through closed blinds and lanced across the bedspread and Crowley decidedly changed his ordinary silken sheets to something softer to welcome Aziraphale. It was the first time they saw each other naked. Crowley thought of the post-impressionist paintings of the 19th Century and the academic conversations of nude versus naked. But Aziraphale was not a sculpture, nor was he a painting. A sculpture feels hard - stone or steel. A painting was oil upon canvas. Aziraphale was human flesh with a holy soul - those two aspects blended together for so long he became something else.

Crowley’s hands explored the folds of Aziraphale’s stomach and chest and outlined the curve on his shoulders. In return, Aziraphale’s hands massaged Crowley’s bone calves and he kissed Crowley’s concave stomach. They remarked in the future the oddity of hair - the thin hairs on their legs, the thicker hairs under their armpits and around their cocks.

Crowley thought again of human sex, which paled entirely in comparison to sex with Aziraphale. As Aziraphale entered him, Crowley expected to see stars. He did. He saw stars of his past. And stars not yet born. Aziraphale moaned into Crowley’s shoulder as Crowley wrapped his arms and his legs around Aziraphale.

Angel. Angel. Angel. Consistently on Crowley’s tongue.

When a particular good stroke hit, Crowley’s back arched, white light steeling him, curling his toes. As he fell, he blinked away tears and saw Aziraphale, still above him. Still with his halo of white hair that seemed oddly both brighter and duller in Crowley’s eyes.

If he squinted, he could see Aziraphale’s white wings stretched behind him. They were not stretched in anger like when they were at the Red Sea, but stretched in pleasure.


	10. EPILOGUE

How does Crowley describe Heaven?

A stereotypical answer would be that Heaven is in the form of the Aziraphale, but Crowley knows the truth about what Heaven is actually like and Aziraphale in no way is anything like Heaven.

Earth provides him with plenty: drink to blur his mind, humans to make him laugh, a resting Aziraphale beside him in their bed. Aziraphale physically is made of nothing, yet he is contained in a complexity of atoms to form a paradox of softness and solidity. There is irony in finding pleasure in their mortal bodies despite their own immortal existences within them.

Post-apocalypse brings joy and freedom and on Saturdays, Crowley still preens his black wings. Aziraphale is a little less caring about his own so after Crowley finishes self-cleaning, he turns to his angel, touches the skin between the roots of Aziraphale’s wings, touches the shoulder blades, touches the folds on his body, touches his back, then his hands smooth the stray white gentle feathers that once touched his forehead six thousand years ago.


	11. ART by bouilliab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by [bouilliab](https://bouilliab.tumblr.com/)

  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for Good Omens Big Bang 2019.  
> You can find Eilwen (author) at cheesecakeboredom.tumblr.com and bouilliab (artist) at bouilliab.tumblr.com  
> With special thanks to beta: [goodnightmoonvale](http://goodnightmoonvale.tumblr.com).


End file.
